


Fathers and Son

by Eris_historia



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Families of Choice, Found Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:15:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21828079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eris_historia/pseuds/Eris_historia
Summary: Malcolm and both of the father-figures in his life.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Fathers and Son

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EmmaDeMarais](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmaDeMarais/gifts).



> I was inspired by your prompt wanting the juxtaposition between Malcolm and Martin's relationship with that of Malcolm and Gil's. I hope that you enjoy!

Malcolm had played it off at the time. Made a little joke when he was asked if it was weird growing up with a serial killer for a father. Humor was a deflection, a defense mechanism. A little morbid and unsettling, but useful.

But it really hadn’t been all that weird. At least, not in the beginning. The Surgeon was a good father. Well, for the first 10 years of Malcolm’s life he was. He indulged all of Malcolm’s questions as they sat down in the hobby room and pored over all of Martin’s medical journals and textbooks. Took Ainsley to playdates when he wasn’t at the office. Came to Malcom’s school plays and performances. Set regular date nights with Jessica. Taught Malcolm how to tie his shoes when he was little. Everything he did had painted him as nothing more than the perfect family man. Hell, up until the arrest, any time Malcolm was asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, he had always said that he wanted to be a doctor just like his father.

Even after the arrest, when Malcolm would go see him at the psychiatric facility, Martin was a good father. Well, if one ignored the whole shackled-to-the-wall-and handcuffed thing. And the whole discussing of what made a serial killer and the murders that he had committed. But still, he was teaching Malcolm and they had continued to bond, in a way. Malcolm had learned so much at the feet of his father as they talked about what made serial killers tick. Almost as much as he had learned in college from his professors. So, by that measurement, he had been a good father.

However, being distant from Martin for ten years and then suddenly forced back into contact with little warning brought something into stark contrast to Malcolm. He had listened to every one of the seventeen voicemails that Martin had left on his phone while he was in the hospital after being bit by that snake. They had started out friendly. Jovial. Happy, even, to be back into contact with Malcolm. But then, when Malcolm hadn’t picked up, they became agitated and aggressive.

_“Malcolm! Pick up the phone! You know that you need me to help you! Pick up the phone right now, or I swear, I’ll make you regret it!”_ was message number eleven. There had been a sound at the end of the message, that sounded as if there had been something thrown within earshot of the phone’s speaker, then sudden silence. Malcolm assumed that the guard had ended the phone call once Martin became violent.

Message twelve, which came 43 minutes after the previous, had turned more cajoling. _“Malcolm. I’m- I’m sorry for the earlier message. I- I’m just- I’m just worried about you. It’s not like you not to answer. I didn’t raise you to ignore people who are trying to help you. I didn’t raise you to ignore_ me! _You need to call me back, as soon as possible. Please.”_

Malcolm knew that he should ignore the messages. Ignore his father. Go back to no contact. But he couldn’t. Martin knew _exactly_ which of Malcolm’s buttons to push to get the reaction he wanted. And so Malcolm kept coming back. Kept coming back for answers. For validation. For reassurance that he wasn’t the same as his father.

Even after he had seen Martin’s manipulations in action with the lockdown in the hospital, Malcolm couldn’t help but keep coming back. Keep giving Martin what he wanted. But, he needed to know. Needed to know about the girl in the box. Needed to know what really happened. Just needed to finally, after all these years, _know_.

What Malcolm finally understood after the lockdown, objectively, was that Martin had control over him. That Martin loved the fact that he could get his own personal validation from his son’s reactions to him. That Martin could manipulate Malcolm, even after all these years, into doing what he wanted, and that what he craved from Malcolm was his submission and adoration. Martin wanted to have someone see the image that he had so carefully crafted about himself and not poke any holes in it, and Malcolm gave that to him, even after the arrest when everyone else in the world just saw what the police had put out into the public about him.

Because, ultimately, Malcolm still craved his father’s approval and would do what he could to keep that approval. It’s what kept him coming back to see Martin in the psychiatric facility for ten years and what kept him going back after the copycat killer forced his hand into contacting his father again. When Malcolm saw Martin and talked to him, he wasn’t a trained profiler any longer. Instead, he found himself back as that ten-year old boy who didn’t want his father to realize who had actually called the police on him. Or as the young, nervous college student who didn’t want to tell his father that all of their conversations had led him to applying for the FBI.

Even when he had been fired from the FBI, there had been that little thought buried far in the back of his mind that his father would finally be happy that he wasn’t working with the FBI any longer. And when he had gone to see Martin about his copycat, he couldn’t help the small flash of excitement that he had felt as he and Martin had worked together to determine who the killer was. And Malcolm couldn’t help but wonder, _What did that say about him?_

* * *

“Hey, kid,” Gil said as he came up behind Malcolm, laying his hand on his shoulder. Malcolm turned to look at him, noticing the dark circles under his eyes that seemed to suddenly appear now that they were done with their latest case.

“Hey, Gil. Crazy few days, huh?”

“You can say that again,” Gil responded. “You up for some dinner? There’s that Chinese place a few blocks down that I know you like. I need to get out of this office, and I know that you haven’t had anything other than the coffee I’ve seen you downing like it’s becoming extinct.”

Malcolm felt a small surge of delight run through his body at Gil’s question. No matter how many times Gil offered dinner, or drinks, or even just some company, it touched him. He was so used to people being put off by him, that it still caught him by surprise every time someone voluntarily wanted to spend time with him.

“I’m not all that hungry, but I suppose I could eat a dumpling or two,” Malcolm said.

“You’ll eat more than a couple of dumplings. You know the rule. At least two bites of every dish.” Malcolm rolled his eyes at the familiar admonishment, feeling like he was twelve years old again. Jackie had started that rule when he would come around to her and Gil’s place, upset and refusing to eat, or even look at either of them. “Come on, kid. I’ll drive you home after.”

Gil and Malcolm walked outside the precinct and began walking the short distance to the restaurant. As they walked, they kept up a friendly back-and-forth between them, discussing their recent case (revenge-motivated fratricide) as well as other, less charged, topics.

Once they arrived at the restaurant and had placed their orders, during a lull in the conversation, Gil cleared his throat. Knowing from experience that that meant that what would next come out of Gil’s mouth would be uncomfortable for at least one of them, if not both, Malcolm looked at Gil and tried to calm the sudden tremor in his hand.

“So, how are you really, kid?” Gil asked. “I know that after everything that happened with your father’s interview and the lockdown, it, well, it wasn’t going well for you. Are you doing alright?”

Malcolm knew how difficult it was for Gil to talk about feelings, and while he wasn’t exactly the most comfortable with it himself, he still appreciated that Gil made the effort for him. Still, deflection was one of his main defense mechanisms, and so, he found himself saying, brightly, “Of course. Never better. I mean, obviously it wasn’t _ideal_ , but it’s not like I should have expected much else. The man _is_ a serial killer, after all. I should have figured that he’d pull something like that. But, whatever, you know? What’s that saying, ‘All’s well that ends well’?”

Malcolm looked down at the paper placemat in front of him, as though he were studying it intently even though there was nothing of substance on it, but in reality hoping that Gil wouldn’t press any further. He pressed his hand against his side, hoping that he could hide the spasms from Gil, all while knowing that the older man never missed them.

“Malcolm-” Gil began, but cut himself off as the server brought over their dishes. He had purposely ordered several different dishes so that Malcolm would eat more than just the one or two bites that was his norm as of late. He knew that it would be a struggle to get Malcolm to take his required two bites from each dish, but he also knew that Malcolm would eventually give in, if only to stop Gil from pointedly looking at him.

Once they each had their food in front of them, Gil tried again. “Bright, you know that you can always bounce anything off me that you need to. Any time. I mean that.”

“Are you getting sentimental on me, Gil?” Malcolm asked after taking one of his required bites of his dumplings. He gave a small, crooked smile, meant to disarm Gil. “Making sure I’m not going to go further off the deep end?” At those words, Gil set down his chopsticks and looked at Malcolm.

“You’re not going off the deep end,” he said, sternly. “Not even a little bit. I won’t allow it. You’ve worked too hard to get where you are today to let your father’s- issues- affect you any more than they already have. Now, I know that I’m not the best at saying it, but you should know. I’m proud of you, kid. You’ve been through hell a few times here, and you’ve managed to come out on the other side. Now, seriously, how are you?”

Malcolm was quiet for a few long moments, gathering his thoughts at Gil’s words. He knew that Gil cared. Really, he did. But to hear him so blatantly just _declare_ it like that. That just wasn’t who Gil was. He was one of those stereotypically macho guys who didn’t bother to talk about his feelings since he dealt with them in his own way, which was preferably over a bottle of beer, or a glass of whiskey. Gil had only ever come out and said how he felt about Malcolm a couple of times in his life, and those were only when Malcolm had done something that had worried Gil so much, that Gil needed to reassure himself that Malcolm was alive, present, and sane.

Malcolm took a deep breath. If Gil was willing to have this conversation, then Malcolm owed it to him to answer him honestly. After all, he had practically raised Malcolm, all without expecting anything in return, other than Malcolm visiting him when he was back in town and letting him know the latest goings-on in his life. When Malcolm had returned to New York after being fired, Gil was the one who gave him purpose again in his life. Who gave him something to look forward to each day.

“Okay,” Malcolm began, grabbing onto the lifeline that Gil was throwing him. “Well, I’m not sleeping again, but I’m sure you know that already..."


End file.
